


unless its with you

by carpethefanfics



Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Artist Ian, Boys In Love, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Content, Jealous Mickey, Light Angst, M/M, Referenced violence, Sexual Content, Swearing, gallery opening, photographer Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: Ian's first gallery opening is tonight and honestly, the only think making him nervous is what his boyfriend will think.That is until he realizes his manager used an old guest list and a number of  people who he doesn't want to see again- people he really doesn't want Mickey to meet either- are approaching the two of them left, right and centre.Mickey's always been jealous so how many exes before he fucking decks them?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764802
Comments: 12
Kudos: 202





	unless its with you

The gallery is everything Ian had hoped it would be; it’s the exact type of chaotic beautiful he had wanted and each frame he passes feels a little more like a masterpiece than it had in under the red lights in the dark room of his studio. There were works of art from a period of time long since passed for Ian, but he remembers them so vividly. There will be many people who will fill the room tonight and not know just how deeply he had to dig in order to take the photographs that he selected for this. What it was like to grow up practically destitute with nothing but a stolen camera and images of forgot part of the city he called home. Yes, they were images in the southside that had gotten him his first magazine cover and his first newspaper articles, but he’s sure that for his moment there are a few new pieces too. A few pieces he remembers taking not so long ago at a home he likes to visit again every now and then where his family still stays.

He takes a deep breath as he looks around, his manager is running in circles directing everyone who isn’t him to do something. It’s a complete whirlwind of a moment so he pauses, preparing himself for it- taking a much-needed moment. He’s praying, in the few seconds he has before he’s surrounded by guests and media, in the few seconds where he gets to see his works in a space he meticulously outlined, that Mickey will appreciate it. That he will understand what Ian had tried to do with the photographs and the space. It can be difficult being steeped in reminders of their home- reminders he’s splattered all over the building- but it’s theirs.

He’s pulled from the thoughts when a champagne glass is shoved in his hand and his manager is pulling him open the huge glass doors. He’s used to being behind the lens but now he’s in front of it and the lights are making his skin heat, but if there is one thing Ian Gallagher has always been able to do it’s pull it together _with a smile_.

“Thank you all for coming. I’d like to welcome you to the opening of my very first showcase. There are new and old pieces alike- I hope they make you feel all I intended them to.”

*

When Mickey arrives, he can’t help but freeze and yank on the tie that suddenly feels fucking suffocating. As he looks around, he realizes- _goddamn_ , _everyone is fucking gorgeous_ and dressed to the nines. Ian knows he hates shit like this- hates being surrounded by people like this who are probably wearing more costly things on their bodies than money Mickey has ever had to his name. But, it’s for Ian. So, he takes a deep breath and swipes the first glass of alcohol that passes him- this thing has fucking _waiters_ for Christ sake.

He’s hoping to catch sight of Ian before someone pulls him into a conversation about art where he can’t really be an ass but in his searching his eyes catch sight of the first piece in a long line of photographs and he’s a little stunned to be honest. The art is, for lack of a better work, **stunning**. Mickey wonders if it’s the fact that he swallowed all that champagne really fast or if the bright lights and shiny people are making his head swim. Then again, maybe it’s what’s in front of him. _Their world through Ian’s eyes_. He follows the trail of frames around the room- piece after piece, wall after wall and even thought Mickey has seen some of them, they are absolutely goddamn breathtaking in this light.

Usually when people spoke of the southside- or when they visited- they were told horrifying things. Murders, robberies, violence. If it’s dark, be sure to roll right through stops signs. If it’s night, make sure you don’t take the train down there. Even if it’s day, don’t stare at the graffiti and the scattered garbage and the broken, splintered _white picket_ fuckin fences for too long. Here, in this gallery, Mickey feels transported to that place. He’s been back so many times since Ian and him moved into their apartment but in these photos, he feels like he’s a young teenager sitting in the dingy single light-bulb basement of a friend of a friend getting his first set of knuckle tattoos. He feels young and reckless and a little harder than he is now.

He comes onto the few images he has seen before- he had kept the magazines in his bathroom (now _their_ bathroom) with clippings of Ian next to photographs that had won him awards. But there are some new ones as he steps through the space- it feels like stepping through time. There are shots of those kick off to summer bonfires with large, rusted metal tins billowing trails of dark smoke over a crowd of faces. The people are holding cans of cheap beer and smoking cheaper cigarettes. Then there are shots of the inside of the boarded up Ukrainian church- the inside scattered with blackened metal spoons, broken off needles and sleeping bags. Images follow of the day it was raided with flashing lights and battering rams and scattering weak, homeless bodies.

He wonders now if this is what Ian had been doing in all that time leading up to the gallery- in all those late nights in the dark room. He had told Mickey there were surprises- _you’ll understand soon, go to bed Mick, I’ll meet you there_.

Then, Mickey stops- completely startled by the next set of three images. They’re set against a wall off to the far left and they’ve got their own row of lights. They’re taken in black a white, much like the theme of the rest of the gallery, and they’re fucking _beautiful_.

They're- they’re him. He’s sitting on the stairs in the backyard of the Gallagher house, a cigarette in his clearly bruised and cut up hand, his eyes closed as he leans back, as the smoke slowly billows towards the sky in each image. Mickey clasps the glass in his hand as he leans forward to read the small placard to the right of the series – “southside forever.”

He’s trying to place that night in his head- a night back in the southside where Ian somehow got a camera on him and didn’t get caught when he hears his voice.

“You found my favourite set.”

Mickey startles slightly, lost in looking at himself the way Ian has clearly been looking at him through that goddamn lens, and lets the breath he’s been holding in stutter out of him as turns to see that familiar face.

 ** _Ian_**.

“You remember that night?”

Ian is standing next to him, watching his face intently and Mickey feels the small smile break across his face as it comes to him, “Knocked that guy on his ass over at that fuckin bar- what was the name of-”

He watches Ian’s smile widen, “The Green Door.”

Mickey nods, “Shouldn’t have put his hands on you.”

Ian lets a quiet laugh out and leans against Mickey’s arm. His voice comes out much more quietly after that, “You like ‘em?”

Mickey to look up at him, nervousness suddenly filling him which he tries to shove away, _this is your fuckin boyfriend- chill out._

“I-” he huffs, “Everything is incredible. You know you’re talented as shit okay?”

Ian smiles, leaning further into Mickey to brush his lips against the shell of Mickey’s ear, “But do you _like_ **them** Mick?”

As he speaks, Ian reaches his hand out to rest against Mickey’s lower back- a shock spreading up Mickey’s spine. _Clearly_ , he’s not talking about the gallery or the images or the night.

Mickey hesitates. He wants to tell Ian that his art takes his _fucking_ breath away. He wants to wrap his hands around Ian’s neck and pull their lips together, wants to let Ian’s tongue dive into his mouth, wants to bite his lower lip and fuckin **pull**. Mickey’s always been better showing how he feels then saying it, but he knows he can’t just lick his way into his boyfriends’ mouth and palm his cock through those perfectly tight pants right now so, instead, he moves his hand to rest against Ian's hip and smiles.

“Yeah ... Yeah. They’re fucking **amazing**.”

*

"Ian Gallagher," comes a pleased, sultry voice. Mickey’s head swivels just as Ian’s does and his fingers clutch a little more tightly on the glass in his hand. Some gorgeous dark-haired man in an irritatingly fit dark blue suit has come up to them from where they stand in front of Mickey’s pictures.

Mickey takes his time narrowing his eyes and checking out the new company. This fucking stranger is too tall with too nice blue eyes. He is smiling with way more elation than he needs too, and Mickey tries to ground himself with the feeling of Ian’s hand in the middle of his back when said stranger decides it’s a great idea to lay his fucking hand on Ian’s fucking forearm. Mickey tenses.

He turns to look at Ian for some indication of who this fucking tool is, if he’s allowed to bite the guy’s head off, but Ian looks almost nervous. His face goes from soft- the way he had been looking at Mickey- to abrasive yet, charming. Mickey feels warmth spread in his chest a little at that- if he didn’t know better, it almost looked genuine. "Ethan," Ian breathes, and Mickey swears it sounds like Ian’s anger is bubbling up. "It's been years."

"I know- three _long_ years!" Ethan’s smile, if possible, expands even more. He’s fucking radiating excitement- way too much for Mickey’s comfort and honestly, if Ian hadn’t pressed his palm more firmly into Mickey’s back he would leave.

"I was just in the city for a business trip- my father sent me, of course, closing some deal or whatever- plus, he knows how much I _love_ being here,” Mickey grimaces at the implication of just how much this man enjoys being in **their** **city** , “And I saw you were doing your first showcase! I had to come and support you- I _always_ knew how talented you were." 

Ian nods at the way this guy is batting his fucking eyelashes, that charm sliding right into place as he lets himself laugh through the fucking cockiness. Mickey can tell it’s a little forced but then Ian turns to look at him. "Ethan, this is my boyfriend Mickey. Mickey, this is Ethan. We used to work together when I was travelling to San Francisco a few years back." Mickey can feel Ian swiping his thumb back and forth on his back through his suit jacket and he moves to brush the back of his hand against Ian’s thigh _. I got it- it’s all good_. He can tell Ian's nervous with what Mickey assumes to be an ex just suddenly rolling up on them and all he wants to do is reassure him. _I trust you, idiot._

Mickey begrudgingly extends a hand to the man who takes it slowly at first- a questionable look crosses his face for a split second before that ridiculous smile is there again and Mickey has to remind himself where he is just so he doesn’t deck the guy. Sure, Ethan doesn't seem to dislike him, but Mickey doesn’t really want to know just exactly how much _business_ was taking place in San Francisco. 

"Nice to meet you,” the man drops Mickey’s hand and turns back to Ian- his face softens for a moment, “Well, I’ll let you two do your rounds- so many people here to catch up with Ian! I'll probably be in town for a while at the hotel- you know where I like to stay-," _okay now Mickey might deck him_ \- "and we definitely have to catch up!"

Mickey winces for a moment, feeling like a jealous fucking psychopath and gritting his jaw tightly. He knows Ian can feel the way his shoulders roll back, “Mickey and I are pretty busy right now- with the gallery and all- but some other time.”

It settles something in Mickey when the guy simply nods, the fucking smile shrinking inwards just a bit and the guy stalking off. Mickey watches him get lost in the crowd before he’s turning to meet Ian’s eyes, “Guys got some fucking balls to goddamn proposition you while I’m standing right _fucking_ here what the **_fuck_** -”

Ian simply draws Mickey towards him and presses his lips to his temple, pushing Mickey forward. _Fuck that fucking guy_.

*

Ian has been taking him through image after image of a life that makes him as teary eyed as it pisses him off. Pictures of places that throw Mickey back to times he loves to remember- _the dugouts after dark with cigarette butts and starry skies overhead_ \- and others he would much rather forget- _an abandoned building with a perfect birds eye view of the area with walls covered in graffiti and bullet holes and shattered glass_.

No one else could really truly understand what each image meant to Ian- what Ian felt standing their taking them, what Ian probably felt knowing Mickey was going to completely understand. Mickey shuddered- it felt like their fucking _love story_ plastered all over the walls. He wanted to gag and swim in the thought of it at the same time.

When they get to the next image Ian is already smiling down at Mickey’s wide eyes. Everything about this feels a little too much but Mickey’s quells the feeling and presses himself against Ian. He can feel his hands tensing at the feeling that he has to reach out and grasp his boyfriend but all he can do is murmur his name, “ _Ian_.”

The shot is wide showing an array of scattered boats by a set of wooden stairs. The bridge is in the background and there’s a faint reflection off the water from the scattered lights in the distance- the reds and whites of signs and homes across the water. It’s the docks. Mickey feels like he’s been fucking teleported to that night. The sight of Ian smoking a cigarette and leaning back against that covered boat. The way he stilled when Mickey called out for him. The way they collided together like the fight and the distance in the days before that moment meant fucking nothing. A kiss he felt down to his _fucking toes_. Just licking his way deep into Ian’s mouth with his hand on his neck, his fingers trailing down over the skin of chest exposed by the open buttons if Ian’s shirt.

The way they had finally ended it that night… after four years of playing way too intense emotional games. Mickey almost going to prison, Ian falling off and getting back on the bipolar pill wagon more times than he could count, the cheating and the running and the toxicity of it all. They weren’t ready- for each other, for a life, for something **stable**. It was the last moment they shared. Ian pressed up against his back, the sound of the metal of his belt hitting the ground, Ian’s lips and hands. **_Fuck_**. Then Mickey told him he was leaving.

With the sound of shattering glass Mickey stiffens and comes back to the gallery- startlingly slipping out of the moment that this image brings him too. He feels the tightness of Ian’s palm in his hand- he had probably actually reached out and grabbed it at some point. He turns to look at Ian who’s already looking at him- _how could we let ourselves lose all that time_ , and Ian squeezes his hand. _It’s okay- we have time now_.

*

Ian had wandered off to get Mickey something that tasted more like whiskey and less like carbonated apple juice- _ugh champagne_ \- and just as Ian is about to get back to him some dark-haired fucker has intercepted him. Mickey can see Ian peering over the guy’s shoulder to make sure Mickey’s exactly where he left him- can see the guy oblivious as all hell smiling and chattering incessantly. He’s got this dark maroon suit on that Mickey thinks would look fucking great on Ian but he’s also looking at Ian like he’s the goddamn sun and it makes Mickey’s skin prickle. It takes the guy putting his hand on Ian’s arm for Mickey to turn away and look at the next row of photographs. He’s got to make sure he doesn’t walk the fuck over there and shove the dude to the ground even though he really, _really_ wants too.

“Guys got an incredible eye huh?”

Mickey turns to see where the British accent is coming from only to be brought eye to eye with a man standing a little closer to him than he would like. He’s decked out in a gray suit with wavy blonde locks and he is eyeing Mickey blatantly. All Mickey can do is nod and pull his lips together. _God what he would give for a smoke right now_.

“He’s also apparently got quite a lot of _gorgeous_ friends,” the guy is smirking at Mickey now and reaches his hand forward, “I’m Oliver.” 

Before Mickey can even register, he’s probably supposed to reach his hand forward because he doesn’t want to seem like a total fucking prick at Ian’s event, he feels a strong body press against his side.

“Mick, here’s your drink,” Ian is saddling up next to him quicker than Mickey even realizes and placing the drink out for him.

Mickey takes the glass with a surprised look on his face and watches Ian’s darkening expression, “Sorry, Ian Gallagher, and you are?”

Ian’s holding out an open hand as his other one moves over Mickey’s upper arm, his back and drop down to his waist pulling Mickey into him. The guys eyes shoot wide open at the name, “The artist? Wow, I was just telling, _Mick was it?_ How amazing you are.”

Ian’s face breaks into a smile and all Mickey can think is _there’s that forced charm again_ as he smirks into his drink, “Mickey. My boyfriend. And thank you- appreciate it.”

The guy swallows harshly, eyes darting from Ian to Mickey before realizing this is going absolutely fucking _nowhere_ for him, nodding with a quick excuse about the bathroom or bar, Mickey doesn’t quite hear him, and wandering off.

Mickey chuckles low as he watches the guy scamper away, “Lay it on thicker why don’t you?”

Ian lets his hand at Mickey’s waist squeeze much to Mickey’s irritation, but all Ian does is laugh and Mickey can’t help but feel much more content then he had earlier.

*

"Gallagher," an unimpressed voice drawls, "Never worked up the nerve to call me huh?" 

Mickey chokes on the second glass of whiskey he’s tipping back, and Ian’s cheeks blush a shade of red, “Jeremy. I didn’t know you were coming- this is Mickey, my bo-"

The man brushes his fingers into the air at Ian’s words and quickly takes a folded piece of paper to slot into Ian’s jacket pocket. He's stalking off before either of them can open their mouths and Mickey wants to throw the glass in his hand just so it hits the dumb fucker in the back of the fucking head. He fucking _gets it already_. He knows Ian is a goddamn GQ model trapped in the southside of Chicago with talent pouring out of every goddamn crevice of him, but he doesn’t need to be **reminded** that everyone else knows that _too_.

Mickey thinks he might fucking explode. Three exes, one gallery opening, really?

 _Fuck off_ , Mickey doesn’t need this shit tonight.

“Guy always had a huge fucking head- thinks he’s hot shit," Ian mutters, his palm sliding lower to rest in the dip of Mickey’s back. "Made out drunk in Miami one fucking time, biggest regret of my life _."_

Mickey wants to laugh, wants to let it roll off his shoulders that these fucking men got a chance with Ian when they were a part. Fuck, all he wants is to let Ian keep showing him his art, keep chatting his ear off about difficult shots and how he wished he had some other fancy fucking camera that Mickey doesn’t know the name of. And yet, he can’t. He pulls Ian towards him to an area a little darker, with a little less people.

"Alright, what the fuck is going on?" Mickey knows he sounds exasperated but he’s beyond fucking irritated. He crossed that one ex ago.

He thinks for a second Ian is going to pretend to not have realized but he seems to quickly decide that it’s not in his best interest to play dumb with the way Mickey’s eyes have narrowed, "It was… difficult after you and I, well, I needed-." 

"Needed what? To get your dick sucked by a fucking dude in every state and then invite them all to your opening night?"

Ian’s eyes go wide, "No Mick, god- just-” and then he takes a deep breath before gesturing to the room, “look at them."

So, Mickey does. Fucking models all around them. He can just feel like he’s getting more heated wondering how much of these fucking assholes had bent over for Ian and how many different fucking times. All these narcissistic dark-haired assholes floating around the room, glancing over at him and Ian- fucking leering at them hoping Mickey will step away for a second and they can offer Ian a repeat of whatever had happened before.

“What the fuck am I looking at Gallagher because-”

Ian scoffs, “ _Gallagher_?”

Mickey’s voice strains, “Because I don’t fuckin get why you brought every stupid fucking lay you’ve ever had to this goddamn opening-”

He feels Ian lean in closer to him, his voice is low, whispering in Mickey’s ear as he steps back from Ian to stare at whatever photo they’ve come to now. But Ian pulls him back, stepping into his space with his hands resting on Mickey’s arms, "Being without you. It was- It made me a person I didn’t want to be. I was reckless- careless- I worked all the time and clearly made some bad fucking decisions."

Mickey’s watching Ian searches his face desperately from some reaction. Ian seems regretful, like it’s painful to be reminded of their time apart and Mickey wants to wrap Ian up in his arms because he gets it- it was fucking awful. But he's also still fucking _boiling_ and he needs to know why all Ian's fucking exes were invited.

"Wherever I went I didn't give a fuck. I just wanted to be someone else. But that only worked for a bit and then I was waking up sober and- and alone. You weren’t fucking there. So, all those fucking flings- I just..."

Mickey reaches his hand up to brush Ian’s cheek because fuck, _he's so gone on him he can't even stop himself,_ “I fucked around. Back then. You know – Mick, you were the only one that made me ever want _more_ ,” Mickey feel’s himself inhaling the words, “So, with them, I was leaving and not calling and just being a fucking asshole. I didn’t care. I don’t." 

Mickey turns to glance at the next photograph they’re standing in front of and tries to calm the way his stomach is flipping. He's still wondering why all these stupid assholes are here, still wondering why Ian’s even telling him this. He gets it- in spite of the jealous rage- he does. They were fucking one night stands a hundred years ago. They were all after the Mickey he was then and before the Mickey he was now. He hadn’t expected Ian to hold a fucking flame for him- be a virgin for the last few years until they both pulled their heads out of their asses. For fucks sake, he hadn’t done that when they had broken a part. He understands it.

"I wanted you to see my work. Not- not be reminded of that. Fucking manager never emailed me the guest list, must have copied an old one or some shit."

 _Oh_.

"Ian," Mickey lets his voice drop and pushes the rage aside, "past is the fuckin past man, I'm-"

Then it hits him like a goddamn train. The connection between all these fucking guys who keep cutting them off and slipping into their moments. The reason Ian is rambling about those guys and him and what it all means. The dark hair, the pale skin, and the _fucking_ blue eyes. Mickey’s features are plastered on all of them in one way or another. He blinks a few times as Ian leads him into another room and he’s fucking choking on it.

“They- they-”

Mickey finds himself completely taken with Ian for a second. They're standing close- face to face in a room with dozens of people but Mickey feels like it’s just the two of them. Those damn green eyes, that perfect fucking jaw. **His** fucking boyfriend. **_His_**. Then his stomach is doing somersaults or something and he slips his open palm into Ian’s, their fingers intertwining. They had only been a part for a few years before they had run into each other again, before this had started again and the bubbling feelings inside of him- this was exactly how Mickey felt the moment their eyes connected across that goddamn restaurant.

It was always going to be him for Mickey.

And after tonight, Mickey knew just how much it was always going to be him for Ian.

"Take me the fuck home," Mickey whispers. 

*

It’s a flurry to Mickey really- how they get out of the gallery, how they get back to their apartment, how they even make it through a whole fucking drive and elevator ride when all he wants to do his _taste_ his boyfriend. But when they finally get inside Ian’s got him pressed against the front door so fast, he thinks he gets whiplash.

The redhead is hungrily grabbing at his body and undoing his belt and pushing off his jacket. Mickey’s doing the same, grabbing at Ian’s arms and tearing at buttons and _fuck this fucking tie_. Ian’s sucking at his throat and biting at his skin in a way that makes Mickey grind against him as soon as their boxers hit the floor. He knows he’s being loud but goddamn, when your Adonis of a boyfriend is gripping your thighs and pulling up to carry you through the apartment, _you’d be fucking loud too_.

Mickey lands on the bed with a huff and he opens his eyes to see his beautiful handiwork decorating Ian’s mouth and neck and chest. His hair is mused, and his eyes are dark. It makes Mickey’s dick throb.

“ _Goddammit Mickey_ ,” Ian murmurs before he’s on him again.

*

They had always been rushed.

Everything about being with Ian was hard and fast. Always in back rooms and alleys and bathrooms; always waiting for a brother or a sister or a raging alcoholic to storm in on them. Always fucking Mickey good and hard until he’d bit his lip and came. But now- fuck, now Ian’s got **time**.

He’s got Mickey blissed out and naked and writhing underneath him. _There’s no where he would rather be_ , he thinks. So, he’s moving slow, taking every fucking second- and he can hear Mickey mouthing off, _hurry the fuck up bitch_ , but all he can do is smile. He knows Mickey’s loving the way Ian is grinding his hips slow and hard into him, the way’s he’s caressing his skin with his hot palms. With their legs tangled and their chest connected- Ian feels like he’s on cloud fucking nine.

He’s letting his hands brush over the sensitive skin of Mickey’s neck where he’s marked and bitten and licked; letting his hands run through Mickey’s hair, nails scraping so that Mickey arches into him. He opens his mouth slow, tilts his head and lets his tongue move against Mickey’s own. Ian can feel the way Mickey’s hands grip at his waist, grip his ass and pull their cocks together so that his dick is fucking aching for more. He can feel the wetness glide between. He can tell by the way Mickey’s hands grip, the way his leg muscles tense that the kiss is hitting him just the way Ian intended.

Mickey pulls back, his eyes still closed, their noses still brushing, “Christ Ian, get the fuck inside me, please-”

Ian smiles as he leans back to press his lips against Mickey’s mouth and pull back again, “Just shut up and take what I give you Mick.”

Then Ian’s leaning back and moving his way down Mickey’s body. He’s starting at his neck where he’s licking and sucking and bruising Mickey up again. Lips moving hot and wet and open down Mickey’s chest to the sound of Mickey’s deep moans. His fingernails are gently scraping their way down until they come to Mickey’s hips where Ian takes another moment to lick and suck and bruise. _Ian holy fucking_ \- but Ian just hushes him and runs his hands over Mickey’s strong thighs, dropping them over his shoulders as he settles between them, letting his mouth trail the spots that make Mickey’s back arch off their bed.

Ian peers up and it’s an absolute fucking sight to have Mickey breathless and glistening all for him. Mickey’s hair is mused from where Ian had run his fingers, his chest is splattered with red, and his neck is dotted with marks that just keep darkening. It makes Ian feel possessive deep inside his chest. _Mine_. He watches as Mickey’s eyes seem to flutter open- _what’s the hold_ \- but Mickey swallows his words with a guttural moan as Ian raises his thighs and licks a strip up the crack of Mickey’s ass to his balls and back again.

Mickey was always pushy- when they were younger, he wanted Ian to spread him with a few fingers and then pound into him hard and wild and deep. Ian remembers the first time he had gotten to properly prep Mickey- his moans had gone straight to Ian’s cock and damn, his pupils had never been blown so wide. It’s why Ian takes his time doing it now. Stroking Mickey’s thighs, gripping him to pull Mickey against his face, pressing his tongue inside Mickey, sucking his fingers into his mouth and pressing them inside Mickey at the same time. _Oh, goddammit Ian_. Even though it made Ian’s cock strain painfully against the mattress, desperate for friction and Mickey’s hot embrace, it was always worth it for those **_fucking noises_**.

It made the moment that Ian sat up, shoved his tongue into Mickey’s mouth, gripped his thigh, lined his cock up and thrust deep into Mickey, _even better_. Those noises, _fuck_ \- those ones that had Ian biting the inside of his cheek to keep grinding and rocking his hips just the way Mickey needed him too. And definitely to stop himself from coming right away.

**Author's Note:**

> http://www.carpetheotherfandoms.tumblr.com


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